Dream Eater
by The Elder Gays
Summary: Kenny McCormick is a young writer, and his last book, a romance novel, became a nation-wide best seller. But now he wants to try his hand at horror, and is finding it much harder than he assumed. Uprooting to a small town in Colorado to gain inspiration, Kenny moves into the local 'haunted house', and gets more than he ever bargained for. [ Crenny: Craig/Kenny & Twyle: Tweek/Kyle]
1. Setting the stage

_He's afraid to close his eyes. When he does, all he can feel is a haunting pressure in the room. When his eyes reopen, the pressure is gone. This makes sleeping almost impossible, finally finding release from the fear and anxiety caused by that devastating feeling of eyes on him, when exhaustion takes him, and his mind shuts down._ _  
_

 _This pattern repeats every night. On day seven of this terrifying paralysis that threatens him from the other side of his room, he has the idea to set his computer to record for the entire night. Tired eyes close with trepidation, worry etched on the edge of his frayed features. Sleep seems to have come easier that night than others, as if the shadows dancing in his periphery knew he was watching them for once._ _  
_

 _The next day, trembling fingers press the play button on his computer screen, eyes fluttering across said screen as he watches the nights events. Fear trickles down his spine, a shudder wracking his frame when he pauses on a pair of almost unseen eyes in the corner of his room._

 _The boy blows the image up and tries to explain to his parents that something has been watching him. Something is stalking him. He waves his image, crying out, pleading with them to listen. But his pleas fall on deaf ears and he's sent back to the very room where his would-be tormentor is hiding._ _  
_

 _Sleep does not come that night. The boy sits up the entire time, knuckles white and fingers gripping the bed sheets as if the fabric were armor against the mystique that threatened his existence._ _  
_

 _When light breaks over the horizon and the boy feels an ounce of safety, he allows sleep to take him._ _  
_

 _This pattern repeats for a couple of weeks and the boy's parents begin to worry for his health. They take him to doctors and run their expensive tests. He keeps his lips sealed about the eyes he discovered on his screen, merely stating that he has had difficulty sleeping. The doctors prescribe him medication, special pills that will put him into a deep trance like sleep. Fear sinks into the boy when he hears this, shivers erupt goosebumps on his skin, his eye twitching at the idea of being helpless to the monster in his room._ _  
_

"W-wait, stop. Why would h-he still even sleep in the same room if t-there was something there?" A voice rang out from behind the typing blond. Said blond starts, surprise flooding his expression as his eyes leave the screen and lock with a shorter man wearing an apron standing behind him.

"I'm sorry, what?" The blond asks, astounded that this stranger, who he can clearly tell is the barista that helped him earlier when he came in, has not only read over his shoulder in a serious invasion of privacy, but also decided to _comment_ on it.

"Y-your main character. Why would h-he stay in the room he knows a m-monster is in? Doesn't make sense to me." The barista shot back, no shame on his face for the invasion of personal space.

"Because, he thinks he's just going insane. That he imagined it," the taller man exclaims, unsure why he even feels the need to explain himself to this stranger _._

The barista scoffs at that, shifting the empty plates in his hands. "H-hallucinating isn't the same thing as h-hard evidence. W-when you h-hallucinate and take a picture, n-nothing's there. Only real t-tangent things s-show up on camera." He pauses, "so why would t-this guy stay?"

The sitting blond pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. He didn't come here to have his newest book criticized. He knew it wasn't coming out the way he wanted, but he certainly didn't need some random guy _telling him_ that.

"And just what do you know about the things that go bump in the night, hm?" he asks, the barista clearly stiffening at that question. "Are you like, a specialist in ghosts?"

The short boy fidgets, making a sour face before huffing and turning on his heel. "S-some people can't t-take constructive criticism," he grounds out before leaving to go back behind the counter.

Fifteen-year-old Anne Knitts deserved better than the end she received. Anne's body had been found in the woods near Stark's Pond. It had been early in the morning during autumn, when the leaves had just started to fall. A jogger had been on a walk with their dog when the animal had veered off the path into the woods. The sight the jogger was met with, til this day, causes nightmares.

Anne Knitts had been mutilated, her body crushed and bent in a grotesque manner. Her skin had been peeled off of the muscle underneath, exposing the tendons and bone, and yet, not an ounce of blood was found at the scene. The only clue the police had were the old coins found wedged where her eyes should have been. The cops had determined no sign of struggle beyond the obvious mutilation and they were never able to locate Anne's skin.

This was one of the many reasons Kenny had decided to come to this podunk town. People like Anne Knitts, people who went missing showing back up in the worst possible ways. Honestly, if you dug far back enough on South Park, a lot of insane and unexplainable things had happened there. It was one of those places that seemed normal enough on the outside, but when you dove deep into the secrets hidden deep under the snow that always seemed to cover the town, you find the danger.

Lifting the last box out of the U-Haul, Kenny remembers how he researched for an entire year before he ended up in this tiny little unexplainable death trap. It wasn't like he was looking for serial killers, no, he could always head to famous states like Wisconsin and Minnesota for that. No, he wanted the weird and unexplained.

When he told his editor, he was thinking about writing a horror novel next, they had tried to talk him out of it naturally. He was able to write romance that curled people's toes, so why change it up? Because he knew it was pandering, he hated it. The entire romance genre he had sold out to drove him insane; it wasn't what he wanted to really do.

The amount of time it took him to get his editor on board with his new book idea was about the time it took for him to research South Park and find the perfect house to move in to.

The house he had purchased was probably the worst part of this entire idea. The blond had requested the realtor find a house on the market that had someone either go missing from or die in recently. She had been baffled by the request, but nonetheless, she had come through.

Thomas Tourette had been a happy enough child, though he had his issues, the people of South Park seemed to like him all the same. The day the teenager went missing, the entire police force had been out looking for him. For two weeks, all of the town attempted to locate poor Thomas, but to no luck. After a month the people stopped questioning his disappearance, as if the young man had just been erased from the town all together. His parents had moved away shortly after that, and Kenny could not for the life of him find anything in the old newspapers or online to explain where Thomas had gone or why the police had dropped the case.

The Tourette house was normal, a two-story with a basement and an attic. More so than Kenny actually needed, but it was cheap and suited his needs just fine. Not to think badly of what could have happened to poor Thomas, but Kenny was hoping for some type of spiritual essence to have been left in the house. Something, anything, to really get the juices flowing.

Moving to close the door behind him, Kenny stops, box in hand, and narrows his eyes at the figure standing near his mailbox. Squinting he realizes that it's that blond guy from the cafe that morning, the one who criticized his writing.

"What do you want?" he calls out to the blond, which in turn seems to have spooked the other. "Gonna stand there and stare at me some more? That's really creepy dude, what are you, a stalker?"

The blond's face twists when he gathers himself and frowns, "N-no, I was just thinking of course y-you're moving in to Thomas' house."

 _What's that supposed to mean?_ Kenny thinks as he leans the box against the doorframe, "Why?" he decides to ask and waits patiently for the strange boy to answer him. But the other just shakes his head as if he doesn't feel like getting into it and waves his hand to dismiss the conversation all together. Blue eyes watch as the strange barista lifts his phone and takes a picture of Kenny and the house, without permission add you, before turning tail and running off.

"Hey!" Kenny yells after him, jumbling the box in his arms and almost dropping it. "Fuck," he hisses, rebalancing the box and kicking his door shut behind himself. I should have realized people in this town would be weird.

It's slow going, unpacking by himself. Kenny finds that he doesn't quite enjoy the silence of the old house as much as he thought he would and decides to hook up his Alexa in different parts of the house. He plays music throughout the rooms he's occupying as he unpacks. Once the office is completely unpacked, the day is entirely gone, and Kenny can feel the hunger raging inside of him. Knowing there is nothing but maybe a bottle of water in his new refrigerator, he makes the snap decision to venture out into South Park.

There is little that actual scares Kenneth McCormick in this world. His tolerance for fear is pretty high and his dabbling into the occult and supernatural only prove to further his tolerance as it intrigues him more than anything. So, to say journeying out into the little town of South Park at night, with all the strange happenings he had discovered in his research, should be scary?

Well, it's not.

The town itself is quiet and cheerful, he finds; a layer of fresh powdered snow dusting the ground and the stars twinkling calmly overhead through the lack of air pollution just seems to add another feeling of serenity. You'd never know that weirder unexplained phenomenon happens in this town more than any other town in the United States, not by first glance.

Kenny finds himself in a place called Shi Ti PA Town, a corner of the town that the locals seemed to have tried to gentrify. He walks inside of one of the nicer looking restaurants and is lead to a table outside. Again, normal, nothing out of the ordinary here, and something inside of Kenny feels let down. He's disappointed by the lack of strange, but perhaps he had made his quota already today by meeting the strange spazzy boy from the coffee shop?

"Water?" a nasally voice asks, and it pulls Kenny out of his thoughts, he glances up and really has to glance up as the server is pretty gosh darn tall.

"Oh, uh, yes?" Kenny asks, his smile pulling on his lips in a way he's sure is very awkward. He hadn't been prepared to come face to face with someone so dashingly attractive, not in this town anyway.

The server simply lifts one eyebrow before he's pouring water into Kenny's empty glass. "You're new," he states, not questions, and Kenny can feel that deep vibrato resonating. The man's voice sends a shiver down his spine and Kenny know's his cheeks are dusting red, there's no denying that.

"Yeah, I just moved here." He wants to ask how the other man knows, but honestly, it's such a small town the locals most likely know each other already. "I moved into the old Tourette's house today."

Something in the man's green eyes seem to flash with recognition and instantly Kenny feels like a jackass for even bringing it up. Judging by when Thomas went missing, if he did the math by this guy's appearance, they must have been around the same age. He might have even known him.

"Shit... dude, I'm sorry," Kenny spits out quickly, "that was really insensitive, bringing up the house like that."

The taller man seems as if he's pulled out of his thoughts before he shrugs one shoulder apathetically, "It's just a house. It's fine."

The blond wants to question more, wants to talk to this person again, but he knows the other guy is working and it would be rude to keep him. Kenny offers a smile and places his order, watching the other leave to go back to work. Even with the small amount of time he's spent with the noirette, he already knows he wouldn't mind talking to him again.

Kenny sits and debates with himself before he pulls out the pad of paper, he always carries in case of notes and jots his name and phone number down. When he's done with his meal and he's about to leave, he writes the man's name from his name tag, Craig, on the note and stuffs it in with the tip.

The blond has never left a restaurant so fast in his life, embarrassment encouraging him to move quickly. It was one thing to have Craig say no and decide to not call or text him, but he didn't need to be around for him to potentially rip up the paper or throw it away. Talk about a shock to his confidence. It had been a long time since Kenny had found anyone attractive, and it blew his mind that he would find someone in this haunted, spooky, town.

 _He's probably a weirdo too_ , his mind supplies.

His walk home is just as uneventful as the walk into town was, just himself and his thoughts alone with the night sky. The moon seems to hover lower in South Park for some reason, larger than he ever remembers it being in the cities he'd lived in. The brisk cold air cuts him like a knife and he's pondering on buying some thicker winter clothes when he sees a figure out of the corner of his eye. The person is shadowed by the trees, not walking the path under the street lamps like him, and Kenny wonders absently if they're following him. He pushes the thought out of his head and just continues his walk down the road, his pace perhaps a tad bit quickened.

It's another three streets over that he realizes the shadowed figure is still there and his heartbeat begins to pick up. Of course, said person could just as easily live in the same direction as him, it wasn't like South Park had many streets, but something inside him reminded him to be suspicious. He hadn't moved to this town for nothing, it had a reputation after all.

Kenny bolts full speed down the next road, turning a corner to hide behind someone's garage to wait and see if the shadowed figure followed him. Sure enough, he could hear the patting of speeded footsteps and he readies himself for when the person passes. He has half a second to collect himself before he sees said person and he acts, jumping from his hiding spot and tackling the other.

The two go tumbling on the ground, snow and dirt flying, Kenny thinks he even sees some grass as he's rolling. They both grapple against each other, the other person loudly yelling profanities. The blond can't see the strangers face, they have a hood pulled up and over their head and he's annoyed that what seems to be someone his age by the body size, was stalking him.

"What are you doing!?" He asks, finally pinning the smaller body to the ground and narrowing his eyebrows.

When the other's head hits the snow, the hood falls off and the guy from the coffee shop is peering back at him with large aqua eyes.

"You?" Kenny questions, his palms pushing harder on the man's shoulders, shoving him deeper in to the snowdrift.

The other man struggles for a moment before giving up, realizing quickly that Kenny had the upper hand. His eyebrows narrow, and he frowns as if Kenny is the bad guy in this situation and he's somehow inconvenienced.

"G-get offa me," he grumbles, pushing against Kenny's body. "This is a free country, man, I can walk where e-ever I want!"

"Free country or not, why were you stalking me?" Kenny demands, putting more of his weight on to the other man to keep him from wiggling around and getting away.

The guy under him lets out a frustrated groan, gloved hands giving a final shove before flopping back against the snow in defeat. "I'm nngh not stalkin' you, okay? Shit, have you never met a fan before?!"

Kenny is surprised to hear the other's response, his eyes narrowing a fraction more in suspicion. "What?" He so eloquently asks, "You know who I am?"

"Well, yeah," the stalker sputters out, looking thoroughly put out at still being trapped under someone in a snowdrift. "You're not exactly hard to find out about, e-even if you use a pen name," he tries to wiggle himself free again to no avail. "I dunno, man, the torrent love affair between Harper and Trent? It had me hanging on- _nngh_ every word. Jesus, the raw passion was just-"

Kenny moves so fast away from the shorter man at those words that he falls backwards onto his ass. So, he was a stalker _and_ he was a fan of that series? The blond's expression twists to that of judgement before he schools the look and dusts himself off.

"Sorry, I didn't think anyone would figure out who I was? I mean, a pen-name is supposed to keep my privacy... well, private." He frowns, twisting his lips before pushing himself off the ground, "Gonna explain to me why you were following me tonight?"

Standing immediately as though he would instantly end up pinned to the frozen ground again, the stranger dusts himself off, movements jerky and uneasy. "W-well, I wasn't trying to creep you out or anything. I wanted to say something at the...at the coffee shop, but I got distracted reading over your shoulder."

Kenny twists his expression at that remark, remembering the unsolicited criticism the blond had offered during his writing session. "Yeah, you certainly sounded like a fan then." The taller man remarks, rolling his eyes, "More like one of my critics."

"Well, maybe they're onto something," the other grumbles, continuing to fidget with his coat. "Criticism i-isn't bad, especially if people know you can do better," the stranger stops his assault on his coat, fixing Kenny with a wide-eyed stare, "But, at any rate, sorry for creeping over your shoulder, man."

Kenny feels the strange anger he felt before melt away, it's hard for him to keep this type of feeling harbored inside for long. He's just not the type of guy to hold grudges and honestly, if this blond is a fan of his, he should be a little more understanding lest he hear it from his PR and editor. A small smile lifts his lips before sighing, shaking some snow from his hair. "Aah, it's okay. I think me tackling you calls us even."

The stranger furrows his brow, a faint smile tugging uneasily at the corner of his lips. "I mean, I-I wouldn't exactly say even, but I guess," he shifts his shoulders, seeming to decide something for himself before wiping his hand quickly on his pants and extending it to Kenny. "I'm Tweek."

The taller man rolls that name around in his mind for a moment, resisting the urge to ask him how much his parents may have hated him to grace him with such a terrible name, but his social skills kick in and instead he merely reaches out and accepts the guys hand.

"Seems redundant to tell you my name, but, Kenny. Nice to meet you, Tweek." Kenny gives his hand a little squeeze as his father taught him, _a firm yet friendly handshake for strangers Kenneth_ , echoing in his head.

"And uh, yeah. Sorry about that again, fight or flight and all that jazz."

"It's cool, man, I get it," Tweek retracts his hand, firming shoving it into his coat pocket. "Weird shit everywhere, y'can never be too careful."

"You're telling me," He pauses before a light switch flicking on in his brain, "Hey. You wouldn't be open to talking about those weird things, would you?"

Tweek's eyes widen a fraction, nearly glowing in the dim light.

"What do you mean weird, there's _nnngh_ -nothing weird going on!" he practically yells to the deserted street, gripping Kenny's arm and forcibly dragging him closer. Tweek's voice drops to a harsh whisper, looking even more manic, if that was possible. "The fuck are you trying to do? Y-you can't let then hear you!"

Blue eyes narrow before glancing down at the fingers gripping his jacket tightly between them, he frowns just a bit at that. "Um, them?" he asks quietly, keeping his voice down as if to pacify the other's paranoia.

"Shhhhh!" Tweek hisses, clamping a hand over the other's mouth. "Yes, them," he glances around them, eyes darting to what could only be imagined foes concealed in the dark.

Turning back to Kenny, Tweek removes his hand with a jolt, cleaning it of any potential germs on his coat before pocketing it once again. "It's not safe here, man."

To say Kenny is startled by the other's actions would be an understatement, his eyes grow wider as he prepares to defend himself in case Tweek suddenly decided to do something erratic. When the blond drops his hands Kenny's nerves calm down slightly, though he takes a cautious step back. "Okay...?"

Kenny glances around as his urge to leave and pretend none of this ever happened rises, "How about we talk somewhere safer? Say the coffee shop you work at? Another time of course, it's late and..." Kenny hears himself trail off, not sure what excuse he wanted to supply.

Pulling his coat tighter around himself, Tweek nods quickly. "After-hours only. Tomorrow."

A weight lifts off of Kenny's chest as he nods, he turns and leaves without much else. He doesn't feel like he owes this new person much, let alone a full conversation. However, if he were to prove useful in finding out the truths of this town, then maybe the trouble he caused would be worth it?

The night sky continues to be unfazed by the night's events, the same twinkling stars he had glanced at during his walk into town now greet him. There's something comforting in the way the sky is unchanged, as if no matter what oddball situations Kenny finds himself in, he can always find common peace in the ever-glowing night sky.

The moment he's home and his head finds the softness of his pillow, Kenny finds a deep slumber he hasn't found in a while. The promise of answers in the form of a strange and terrifying stranger giving him comfort in ways he shouldn't find it. After all, he wasn't one for boring and normal, he thrived in the unknown. And South Park, was just that: unknown.

Kenny McCormick was no stranger to small towns; he'd grown up in one all his life before embarking into city life when the siren call of college came singing in his ear. So, he was used to the creeks and strange unexplainable sounds that came with old houses built during times long gone. At least, that's what Kenny keeps attempting to convince himself as different occurrences continue to take place and repeat in his new home. Sure, he bought the brick home with hopes that he could draw inspiration from the disturbing on-goings that happened within the walls of his new abode, but he did not sign up for actual ghosts.

The last couple of weeks he had found himself out of the house more often than not, his interviews with Tweek keeping him focused on the enigmatic blond's veiled answers, hoping he could decipher the truth behind them as if they were some cryptic puzzle. Concentrating on something tends to take all of Kenny's attention, so now that he's has enough down time to notice the phenomenons happening, they're getting harder and harder to ignore.

Sitting in his office, Kenny is convinced the coffee mug his baby sister made for him moved. He had been writing a scene when the smallest scraping sound had caught his attention and now, he can't seem to look away from the baby pink and purple mug. He doesn't know how long it's been that he hasn't dared to blink, the silence filling the room almost palpable.

It doesn't move again.

But he knows damn well that it **did** move.

There's darkness surrounding him at every angle, a deep abyss swallowing him whole at every turn. He's been here before, many times. It's the same hellscape he finds himself stuck in whenever his night terrors decide to rear their ugly heads. It's always the same, he can tell he's there, completely aware of the situation, yet he can't force himself to wake up and escape this demented dream.

The darkness gives way to a barren wasteland of reds and oranges, a desert of death. Hands reach from their graves grasping and hoping to grab on to something, anything, to release them of their untimely torture. Kenny knows the cracks and holes to avoid, the dance he must perform to dodge the ever-reaching fingers, dry skin cracking and flaking off of the torn appendages. This mass graveyard that goes on as far as the eye can see with no sign of stopping, seems like his own personal hell, a place where many people are forced together yet at the same time destined to be apart, none sharing the same grave, never able to touch.

Next come the screams, the deafening sound that for sure should wake him from his slumber, but never does. They come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, bombarding his senses and rupturing his eardrums. It's in the silence that he finds his adrenaline pumping and the fear really taking hold.

He drops down out of the wasteland into a world of colors, bright and painful. They seem off, as if the vibrancy is attempting to blind him. He concludes that is exactly what this particular purgatory was designed to do, much as the shrill screams had robbed him of his hearing, this dangerous swirl of ever assaulting colors was meant to strip him of his eyesight. Kenny closes his eyes to save that sense, relying only on his memory of the dreams, knowing full well what was next to come.

He attempts to keep this wonderland of horrors from stealing the most important defense he has in this place: his sight. It isn't until he finds himself safely slipping into the next layer of his perdition, does he finally deem it safe enough to open them.

Learned experience has taught him that the next stage of his night terror will walk him through his sense of pain, and this is when his mind tends to overload enough to wake him. Though he's anticipating the world he's phasing into, he is never really fully prepared for the level of agony his mind, and thus his psychical body, goes through.

It is a white room, devoid of colors or sounds, emptiness at its greatest perfection, that he finds himself.

The pain will follow after the door appears and Kenny's heart hammers hard against his chest as he squeezes his eyes shut and prays to any deity that could possibly be listening to not put him through this suffering again. He hits his knees and prays as hard as he can, the silence the screams caused ringing a terrible emptiness in his ears, stealing his chances of foretelling the doors arrival. It creeps up on him like the demented unorthodox creation that it is, opening slowly and with some trepidation. The weight of the door causes this slow creep, but Kenny thinks it's also the pain that comes with anticipation that causes its snail's pace as it opens.

Kenny knows deep within his subconscious that this is just a dream and his untouched body is, more likely than not, tossing and turning in a torrential wave of sweat back in the safety and sanctity of his bedroom. However, no matter the conviction he holds, nothing will or can stop the wave of pure fear that wracks his body when the door finishes its journey, gaping open, welcoming the plethora of demons inside to come and play.

He is frozen in his terror, eyes peeled wide as he shakes, watching the void of darkness within the door frame for any slight sign of movement. What demented hell creature would he be provided with today, he wonders. Which creature would be the master of his pain, the main attraction for his agony? It's his mind's own carousel of horrors, providing an ever growing diversity of anguish to punish him for whatever misdoings these night terrors are pennants for.

Kenny can feel the growing lump in his throat as he spies the swiftest of movements beyond the shade. His eyes burn from over use yet he does not dare blink, least he miss the horrendous beast his twisted psyche has plucked out to doom him. It is in a moment of weakness, when his eyes can no longer stand to be open, that he feels the touch of a ghostly appendage on his skin. It's that brief second, that instance of darkness inflicted by his need to blink, that he knows he has damned himself.

When his eyes reopen, he is face to face with something only described as unworldly. It's maw so close to his face that he can now feel the panting heat of its breath, smell the stench of sulfur mixed with the coppery sweetness of blood. Wetness travels down his skin and he isn't sure if it is his own tears, sweat, or the dripping saliva from the monster's beak-like mouth that has found its way downward. He doesn't know, nor does he have time to ponder this, as the creature descends upon its meal, happy to rip Kenny shred by shred as his unheard screams are surely gracing its ears.

Kenny awakens to the sound of his own screams, primal and torn from him, ripped out of his throat hard enough that he can feel the rawness when he reaches up to touch his Adam's apple. His hands are shaking as he reaches for his bedside table, a little pill bottle awaits him as he snatches it and pours out two small white pills. He downs them without any water and allows himself the chance to finally breathe, to take in the fact that he's whole and _safe_.

His mind races as he cries into his open palms; he always cries when his medication fails him and takes him back to the hell of his own making. He cries for the souls trapped in the ground and for his ongoing torture at the hands of unspeakable horrors. Kenny wonders if he's cursed, cursed in the way many gifted imagineers are. Blessed by the ideals of their mind and haunted by them at the same time. When Kenny's breathing finally dies down, the tiniest hiccups left over from his tears, he dries his face on his sleeve and tries to allow the medication to lull him back to sleep.

During the moment when sleep begs to take him, and consciousness hangs on, he swears he sees a person in the corner of his room. A boy. Young, scared, and apprehensive, as if the idea of the man in the bed's own torment frightened him. Kenny thinks nothing of this, surely, it's his mind playing tricks on him again, as it does so often, and he allows the pills coursing through his bloodstream to do their work and put him back into a dreamless slumber.


	2. Strange Happenings

_Sometimes you stare at a blank document and envision a beautiful canvas full of words that illustrate the picture in your mind's eye. Other times, you stare at a blank document and all you can see is the emptiness of your inner mind, that lack of color and imagination, just drowning you in that deep void. It's a painful process to push through the fog your own mind creates, because the truth is, we are our own blocks, no matter how much we wish it were an outside force keeping us from tapping that potential._ _  
_

 _We blame the environment, convincing ourselves that if we were in a different place, a different situation, it may be easier. Who are we to say that this isn't true, some artists thrive in different situations and places, but others, this is a excuse for our own shortcomings. So, we change it up, we go to the local coffee shop where we're forced to sit among other like-minded individuals who happen to be chasing the same white dragon as us. A group of people who all seemed to flock to the same place at the same time, striving for the same goal, tapping into that once endless supply of imagery that came so easily before that moment._

 _Distractions are another beast we have to overcome before we can ourselves creating again, and boy do we have enough distractions to fill that void in itself. Websites, social media, even people, which the latter can be the most damning in stopping us from creating content._

 _People. Like a certain blond barista who happens to be a fan, that claims they aren't a stalker. The same blond that continues to stare at me when I'm trying my best to finish this scene instead of him peeking his aqua eyes over the thunderous sounds of the old espresso machine, he happens to hover behind more often than not. Doesn't he know I came here like the rest of these tired disconsolate individuals to tap into the macabre of this hellhole of a town?_

 _But no, he, Tweek, continues on with his intense gaze as if he could strike up a conversation with his eyes alone. Does he think I'm psychic? I'm starting to believe he does, and honestly, I cannot even begin to fathom what he wants from me beyond the short strange conversations we've had in our frightful interactions. Even when he takes the time to look away, his eyes pried away from my vision, I am still annoyingly drawn to his action. This young man is always in motion; I doubt he knows how to stand still, even if his life were in danger. His body moves on its own it seems, twitches and tics that appear and disappear as quickly as they come. Little sounds reverberate from his frame even when he is silent, and I wonder if he's aware that it's even happening._

 _Tweek's presence haunts me; I could easily go back to the sanctity of my newly purchased home._

 _But I, like the rest of the millennials in this coffee shop, have convinced myself that my block is driven solely by environmental choice. The convenience of free wifi, a steady stream of caffeine, and the heat of this maverick's constant attention keeps me glued to my chair. I find it somewhat terrifying and thrilling at the same time to have someone fixated on me like this, but I wonder what could possibly be the rational reason for it? Logically, my mind supplies that fandom can associate the creator of their favorite content to the object of their obsession, thus creating this strange idea that we as the artists or writers are somehow part of that interest as well. However, I feel as if this goes so much deeper than some fans twisted ideas that I may or may not be like the characters I choose to write. The way his eyes follow my every little movements drives me to believe it is less my work and more me as a person that is his fixation._

 _It strikes me that he could have taken our first real conversation completely different than my original intent, but it isn't as if we've talked about it much beyond a few questions from me and vague answers from him._

 _It's clear to me that Tweek is hiding something, that behind those dry vague answers he delivers that something large and monstrous is crying to be released. I can tell he's trying harder and harder to not let the beast loose at every interview, but it's getting more difficult for him to repeat his obviously rehearsed answers. It's clear the reason seems to be trust, as if the words that strangle him begging for release could be something groundbreaking, but he needs trust to release them._

Kenny lifts his eyes off of the dull computer screen, staring across the small café at the blond as one of his eyes does that small twitch he's been noticing. It's barely noticeable and one would need to be paying quite the attention to detail to even catch it. He absently wonders if this is something that the other has been working on for a while, suppressing his tics? He wants to ask, but he also doesn't want to encourage this eerie attention he's been picking up from the other, even if his own fascination of the shorter boy is growing.

The blond rests his cheek on his palm and finds himself sighing once more as he stares at the words floating across the digital space in front of him. He'd been in South Park for a few weeks now and not one good sentence had come from him since. It was agitating him that he can't seem to focus, his eyes glancing up without permission to continue his study of the twitchy barista.

 _If it's trust he wants, it is trust I will earn._

Their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds and against his better wishes and self-preservation skills (or lack there of), Kenny raises his hand and gives the blond a quick little wave.

As much as their eyes consistently meet across the café, and as obvious it's been that they are each clearly watching one another, Tweek blinks in dismay at Kenny's gesture, a hand jumping to his hair to tuck a wild strand behind his ear.

He approaches with silent apprehension, eyes narrowed as though he expects Kenny to tackle him as he did weeks ago. Like none of their conversations ever happened.

"What's up?" Tweek fiddles with his apron, and Kenny feels his unblinking eyes watch him.

A brief hum fills the space between them with Kenny staring at his computer screen as if Tweek's presence did not affect the writing he had been focusing on in the least bit. After he finishes tapping a few more words, he turns his gaze up to the blond and quirks the corner of his lips, "Nothing much, thought I'd swing by and get some writing done." He supplies softly, not wanting to gain attention from the others surrounding them. "Maybe ask you a few more questions, if you have time?" Kenny is trying his best to seem casual, wanting to not spook the paranoid barista.

Tweek visibly bristles at that, quickly looking around at the other patrons. "I-I mean, sure, I guess. But...uh, didn't I answer what you needed to know?" he drops his voice, leaning over to wipe at the corner of Kenny's table with a rag in a clear attempt to seem inconspicuous.

 _Don't push, don't seem too interested._ Kenny tells himself as he tilts his head into his palm, "Naw, you told me plenty. But, hm, see there are a few other things I need to ask about. If you don't mind sharing of course?" His eyes lower to the frantic scrubbing before glancing back up, "It would help me to get my writing back on track."

Tweek makes an almost strangled sound in the back of his throat, rag stilling against the tabletop. "I, uh...I could, I suppose. If it'll be...helpful, I guess," he mutters, more to himself than the man in front of him.

"I don't know what else I could..." his sentence peters out, Tweek's attention caught by the little bell on the café door chiming as someone entered. An ounce of the tension in Tweek's shoulders eases as he watches the new patron enter.

"H-hey, Craig," Tweek stands up straight again, a small smile on his lips at the newcomer to his shop. He shoots a quick look to Kenny before taking a step back toward the bar. "Heading to work?"

"Just finished," a low, nasally voice replies, sounding exhausted.

Every ounce of cool Kenny has managed to collect into some semblance of a calm exterior dies with the taller man walking through the coffee houses threshold. It feels like some awful cosmic joke that these two know each other. Kenny had nearly forgotten his bold act of leaving his phone number for the waiter to find, but he's deeply reminded of it as he sinks deeper into his seat attempting to hide behind his laptop. He hadn't heard back from the noirette and that was a clear enough sign that he had been _very_ not interested.

 _Why does the universe hate me so much?_ Kenny thinks as he starts packing up his things, praying no one notices. He'll just tell Tweek they can talk another time; the new plan was to go bury himself in a fort of pillows and blankets and pretend like none of this ever happened. Maybe he'd go project his feelings into his writing, wouldn't that be a kick in the pants, thank you irony. Wanting to run away from his romance novels only to find solace in them, yikes.

"Kenny, what're you doing?" Tweek calls over the dull hum of conversation in the shop, with no regard or sympathy for a man trying to escape his embarrassment, apparently.

The tall waiter, _Craig_ , Kenny remembers and instantly pretends he doesn't when another pang of mortification shoots through him, turns then, green eyes tired and gorgeous as he scrutinizes how quickly the blond is shoving things into his bag.

He grasps at straws, attempting to access his vast vocabulary for anything that could save him from this situation and falling incredibly short when the only thing that stumbles out of his mouth is, "I, uh, bathroom?"

If he hadn't wished a hell-mouth would open up under him at this very moment before, he certainly wishes for it now as those green eyes narrow on him.

Tweek raises an eyebrow, that quick twitch of his eye pulsing like a beacon across the room. "You can leave your stuff."

"I'll watch it," Craig adjusts the bag over his shoulder and crosses the cafe. "Needed a place to sit, anyway. If you don't mind, that is."

Panic surges through the blond as he jerks his head back and forth between the two of them. This is the real conspiracy of South Park, these two. Right here, right now. "Yeah, yeah you can sit there."

Kenny attempts to stand, banging his knee on the table as he goes, a hiss, a mix of awkward embarrassment and pain leaves his mouth before he straightens. "Of course I can just, leave my stuff. I knew that, I just.. I'm from a big city, yanno? Force of habit."

Craig's eyes drop to Kenny's knee back up to his face, a faint look of concern creasing his brow. "Makes sense," he slips the bag from his shoulder and loops it over the back of the opposite chair and all but melting against it when he sits down. "Thanks. And go ahead, I've got it."

Kenny isn't sure what hurts more, his knee or his ego. With his shoulders deflated, he walks toward the bathroom feeling the weight of his previous actions. Why did he leave his number? Why did the waiter know Tweek? Why is this town nothing like he thought? He had been expecting a spooky place full of mystery that would jog his writing juices. Instead, he's been faced with a twitchy barista and guy that looks like he could model for Hollister.

Groaning, he pushes the door to the bathroom open. It doesn't escape his attention that something feels off in the little two stall room. It's the feeling you get when you try off brand products, it's incredibly familiar yet something just isn't _right_. The light flickers once as he stares at himself in the mirror, not really needing to use the facility. The face that stares back is tired and worn, he knows he hasn't been sleeping well and he's been chalking it up to the difference in time-zone or the change in atmosphere. Because he definitely does not want to admit that his sleep terrors have started reforming, not at all.

Turning the water on, Kenny decides to splash some on his face, the situation wasn't that dire, was it? Maybe it was all in his head, maybe the waiter didn't even remember him. Maybe he didn't look like complete shit and it was just his overly active imagination supplying deep bags under his eyes. The thought of the waiter not remembering him comforts him slightly, anything would be better than a straight out rejection.

"Oh please let him not remember me." Kenny mutters, his face dripping from the cold liquid. It takes him a beat to realize there was something in his peripheral vision, a darkness, in the corner of the room. He quickly whips his head around but finds nothing out of the ordinary. Kenny turns the faucet off as he notices a strange drop of temperature in the room, the small hairs on the back of his neck standing erect freezes him in place, not daring to move.

The sinks steady _drip drip drip_ echoes like a metronome in the still restroom, Kenny's eyes fixed on each droplet of water falling and splattering in the sink. He's convinced that he definitely saw something in his peripheral, and the longer he stares at the leaking faucet, the more the feeling of something watching him grows.

 _ **This**_ is what he came here for. This _thing_ , this presence lurking around the edge of his vision that has his heart hammering with excitement. Something was finally happening. Kenny tries to ignore the sharp coil of anxiousness in his stomach, the vice of fear squeezing his chest despite his eagerness for some kind of contact with the unknown.

Kenny steels himself to turn once again, counting down with each slow drip.

 _Five...Four..._

His hand tightens on the faucet knob, knuckles going white.

 _Three..._

The chill is back, a shiver running down his spine and sending goosebumps erupting over his skin.

 _Two..._

 **BANG.**

Kenny twists around in a hurry when one of the two stall doors slams harshly into its frame, the unsteady structure still shuddering from the impact, the hinge creaking in the aftermath.

"Jesus..." he murmurs to himself, watching the door bump awkwardly against the frame as he holds a hand to his chest and feels his heart slamming into his ribs harder than the stall door.

Kenny lets out a long breath, hand still with a death grip on the sink before he turns back to the mirror to grab a paper towel.

A flash of eyes that aren't his own meet his in the mirror.

The blond resists his primal urge to scream, either that, or he's so frozen that he's unable to make a noise. Either way, Kenny's own eyes are locked with a pair of grey ones. When his body catches up with his terrified mind, he blinks, and the eyes disappear. Finally, able to regain motion control, Kenny takes a tentative step backward. There's no way he saw that? No way there was something actually there? His mind moves a mile a minute, unable to rationalize what he just saw, no logic to explain the steel eyes that had pierced into his own. He's terrified sure, attempting to debunk his own experience, yet his hands are shaking not with terror alone but with excitement. The thrill of a real life paranormal experience drives him, his eyes scanning the room for more signs.

The fear that threatens to grasp him is held off by the palpable excitement vibrating through his bones. A shuddering breath is pulled from his lungs before he allows a small gasp of words from his lips, "Hello?"

He has a moment of worry, that someone may step into the room and think he's lost his mind. But his worry evaporates as he feels what can only be described as a brush of fingers against his shoulder. Kenny's blood freezes in his veins. He raises his eyes back to the mirror on the wall, taking in the look of absolute terror mared on his features.

He has a decision to make, a very important one. The entire reason he came to South Park was for all of the strange and wild occurrences that had been documented, to use them to help his own ability to write.

However, he never really expected anything to happen. Talk of spirits, monsters under the bed, and aliens- were just that. Talk. But this? This was next level and Kenny isn't sure if he's on board with the reality literally facing him down.

Does he deny this reality or does he accept it?

Kenny opens his mouth to say something, anything, to swallow down his fear and how badly he's shaking because this is what he's been hoping for since he arrived in South Park.

Before a word can leave his lips, the hot faucet handle spins, water pouring into the sink. He watches, eyes darting around to his reflection to catch sight of those eyes again, but a steady fog creeps over the glass, obscuring his face until it's only a smudge of color.

Across the glass letters slowly appear, as though someone was writing with their finger. The condensation collects and drops of water roll down the surface of the mirror, the short phrase scrawled across the glass looking as though it's melting.

 **GET OUT.**

Kenny doesn't need to be told twice, within seconds he's willed his body to move at a speed previously unknown to him. He finds himself on the other side of the bathroom exit, wondering if his sanity is intact, back flush to the wood of the closed door.

The blond's adrenaline starts to wan now that he is out of any immediate danger, and a sick laugh begins to lift deep from his gut out of his throat.

That had been terrifying but it had actually happened! South Park had finally come through for him and in the most unexpected way. Pushing from the door, his fingers shaking, he turns to reopen the bathroom.

But he doesn't get the chance as another patron of the store pushes past him. "Dude, move," the man scowls before going inside. Kenny follows the man with his eyes but the inside of the bathroom no longer feels cold, nor does he see the writing on the glass.

Kenny lifts his hands to scrub over his eyes with the heels of his palms. Ignoring the look said man is giving him before going about his bathroom motions, "Weirdo" whispers under the other man's breath, carrying from the closed stall.

The blond turns heel and leaves the scene of his terrifying experience, returning back to reality and the openly awkward scene he had put on pause. His eyes scan the area and find the waiter sitting across from his seat, Kenny's laptop suspiciously open when he knows he closed it.

Walking with a purpose now, Kenny takes the few steps to close the distance, staring down at the laptop and the man across from it. "Um?"

"Hey," Craig lazily looks up at Kenny with his chin propped on the palm of his hand. "You okay? You were in there for a while."

The fact that the tired yet annoyingly handsome waiter ignores the glaringly obvious fact that he's invading Kenny's personal space by opening his laptop, does not escape Kenny. However, he doesn't miss a beat and shares the oblivion with the other on the topic, choosing instead to roll his eyes.

"I fell in." He deadpans.

The waiter snorts out a quiet laugh, settling back in his chair. "Figured as much. It's why I don't use that bathroom."

Kenny thinks about telling the truth, but decides to keep it to himself instead. He doesn't know this guy from adam, why in the world would he inform him that perhaps he may have cracked and started hallucinating? That or expose the fact that there were actual spirits in Tweak Bros. bathroom and lose his chance to further investigate? He chooses to keep it to himself.

"Smart choice, I'll remember that." Kenny sits back onto his own chair, eyeing the laptop then the waiter, frowning softly. Now that his heart has started to calm down, he's reminded of the original panic he was suffering. The sweat on his palms becomes uncomfortable, he rubs them over the knees of his jeans as he attempts to figure out what even to say right now. The situation couldn't be more awkward even if he had chosen to babble on about ghosts in the bathroom.

"Sometimes it's best to shit at your own house," Craig says with a bored sigh, turning the laptop to face Kenny when he notices Tweek approaching with his coffee. "Thanks, man," he takes the mug in his hands, practically shoving his face to the rim to inhale the dark liquid.

"No problem," Tweek rests his hip against the back of the waiter's chair, looking back and forth between the two men at the table. "So."

Blue eyes intently watch the motion, his laptop now facing him. He wants so bad to comment, to say anything regarding the invasion of privacy, but he's too busy feeling incredibly out of place and awkward.

The way the two of them are existing in each other's space makes him increasingly uncomfortable. And it hits him like a freight train that maybe the reason the waiter never called or texted, was standing right there in an apron.

 _Great, the hot ones are always taken._ Kenny thinks to himself, swallowing down the discontent building, trying his best to smile. His fingers brush cold metal as he closes his laptop and repeats Tweek's almost question, "So?"

The barista blinks down at him, standing straight again. "Shit, man, you don't have to be so hostile," Tweek mutters, flicking Craig's ear when he chuckles at his reaction.

"Don't mind him, he gets irritable whenever Shirley comes in," Craig sets his mug down and leans in conspiratorially to speak to Kenny as Tweek walks back to the bar. "She doesn't understand what a cappuccino is but won't order anything else."

Kenny feels like he's invading a private moment or somehow found himself in the middle of a inside joke, either way, he feels his insides squirming and that familiar need to run.

Sure, he can face down a bathroom ghost but put him in a social situation that involves any type of anxiety and he bolts. But to his credit, Kenny merely offers a weak laugh, clearly forced. "Mmm, Shirley sounds like a middle aged soccer mom."

"She wishes," the stupidly attractive and probably definitely not single waiter takes a sip from his mug, eyes following his movements over the rim. "You were at Vernacular."

This catches Kenny off guard and he feels his fingers tighten on the fabric of his jeans. He laughs again, awkwardness dripping from the sound. "Ah, yeah... listen," He starts, feeling awful that he managed to put them both in such a terrible situation.

"I'm sorry about the number thing. I realize it must have been wildly inappropriate of me and I'm surprised you're even talking to me." The blond pauses to run his hand through his hair and glance to the side, eyes meeting Tweek who happens to be trying not to kill some elderly lady that has a scowl painted on her features.

 _Shirley, maybe,_ his mind supplies before he's pulled back to the waiter in front of him.

The other's eyes narrow in confusion, setting his mug back on the tabletop. "Wait, what? I don't know what you're talking about."

Kenny's eyebrow quirks at this, confusion was not the reaction he was expecting. "I can't tell if you're playing dumb to spare my feelings or actually have no idea what I'm talking about."

"I promise I have no idea," he taps his short nails on the side of the mug, little tings sounding against the ceramic. "But you're blushing and fixating more on whatever happened with your number than finding me, a stranger, sitting with your open laptop, so now I'm curious."

There's a audible groan that draws out of Kenny as he slumps down in his seat, wishing more than anything that this was one of his romance novels. If it were, he'd be smooth like his character Trent, but instead, he's scrambling for words and feeling the freckles on his cheeks burning from the ferocity of the blush spreading across them.

"Wow, touché." He finds himself muttering, "I wasn't sure how to broach the conversation, you know, reading my private writings and whatnot."

The waiter shrugs a shoulder, an easy smile crossing his lips. "Your other stuff is better," he says with an underlying air of humor.

Kenny's lips pull tight, caught between a mix of irritation and annoyance or feeling flattered that this attractive unattainable person, has read something he's written. A quick sigh leaves his lips, deciding to let his irritation die to leave behind some soft cynicism.

"Is that right? Can I assume you as well are a fan of the 'Blazing Whispers' series?" Disappointment laces his words, eyes dropping to the tapping fingers still making quick work of the ceramic mug.

"Fuck no," the noirette visibly recoils, nearly spilling his coffee on himself. "Tweek loves it, I don't get it. God, no offense, but I can't believe you wrote that shit."

Craig shakes his head, grin firmly in place, "Nah, uh...I'm a big fan of Dream Eater."

For the second time during this conversation, Kenny's thrown for a loop. This person continues to baffle him, keeping him on his toes with every sentence. He blinks, not having heard those words in a really long time. "You read Dream Eater?"

"Yeah," the waiter, Craig, meets his eyes, excitement brightening his expression. "I don't want to sound like a crazy fan or anything, but it's probably my favorite book. It's so wonderfully fucked up and the imagery just..." He trails off, running a hand through his hair awkwardly.

Kenny blinks rapidly, when was the last time anyone had complimented his first novel? It had been a total flop and he was sure it was doomed to rot, forgotten to the ages, no matter how much it had been his favorite thing to date he's written.

It takes a moment before he's able to collect his thoughts again, "Wait, so I assume Tweek told you who I was then?" His eyes hit the top of his laptop again, cheeks burning. "And ...thank you? I put my heart into that book. It's nice to hear someone actually liked it."

"He may have mentioned a couple things, yeah." He extends his hand to Kenny, "Craig. And thank you for writing it. I think I've read my first copy to death."

The blond gives Craig's hand a quick skeptical look before taking it, he shakes his hand the same way he shook Tweek's, mentally comparing the differences in the size and feel of their hands. "Kenny, and honestly that's a first for me." He chuckles when their hands release, gnawing his bottom lip between his teeth nervously.

"I could sign it if you want." He jokes, not convinced that this was even happening. Dream Eater had been something he started near the end of high school, it was a book heavily inspired by some of the weird night terrors that plagued his youth long before his psychologist had finally found the right mix of medication to make them stop. Needless to say, it was not well received by the general populace. "May I be so bold as to ask why you liked it so much?"

Craig's chin returns to rest on his palm, eyebrow quirking up in amusement. "Of course. As long as you answer that question you've been avoiding."

Blue eyes narrow into a squint as he tries his best to formulate an explanation that doesn't outright make him look like a idiot. He finds himself failing and just says the first thing that comes to mind instead, "I left my number, in your tip. With your tip I mean, I tipped of course."

His cheeks feel bright enough to light the night sky, side glancing to the bar where Tweek was filling beans into the espresso machine. "I shouldn't have, and I apologize, I should have known..." He allows himself to trail off, shaking his head. "Anyway, yeah."

Green eyes blink at Kenny once, twice. Raising his chin from his hand, Craig's lips part in question, teeth flashing when they curve into a grin. "Oh my God."

"Jesus, really?" Kenny grumbles, covering his face with his hands in exasperation. "Rub it in, will ya?" He tries to ignore how Craig's face lights up when he smiles, his heart squeezing in his chest.

 _Stop it_ , he chides himself, grumbling unintelligibly under his breath some more.

"What? I'm allowed to be pleasantly surprised that my favorite author isn't a piece of shit tipper," it isn't confidence that flows off Craig in waves, but instead this casual assuredness that captivates Kenny.

He peeks through his fingers, confusion dancing across his features. That's what he's referring to? "Okay, one, of course I tipped. I tipped $10 which was over 20%. And, two, did you just say favorite author?"

"Figures. Coworker must be swiping tips again," Craig says to himself, picking up his coffee and blowing on it before taking a sip. "And yeah, I did. Which, after all this, seems like a much less embarrassing thing to admit to someone you just officially met." He's smiling, watching from behind his precious mug of coffee, and Kenny's heart drums out a staccato beat in his chest.

"Heh, yeah. Thanks for that," he comments, trying to get his erratic heart to stop reminding him that the guy in front of him keeps checking off things on his personal list. They've only just met and he isn't really in the mindset to deal with this on top of the shenanigans in the bathroom.

When does he get a break? He wonders, hands tapping on top of his laptop. Does he mention the number thing again? Craig obviously dropped it, most likely because he's not single, giving Kenny an out. And he takes it at full speed.

"You said you'd tell me your favorite part, of the book I mean?" The blond asks, hopefully successfully changing the subject.

"I did, that's fair," Craig's nails return to drumming against his mug in thought, eyes drifting around the shop, almost pointedly not looking at Kenny. "I love the mix of mythology, tech, and space. Like when I read about it, I initially thought it was a sci-fi novel, but it's much more fantasy than anything, I think."

Craig fiddles with the cuff of his black dress shirt, unbuttoning it and rolling it up to his elbow as he continues, "The way you tied mental illness in too was...I dunno, it felt real in a way that not a lot of people are willing to write about." Moving to the other arm, the waiter briefly catches Kenny's eye before rolling up his other sleeve.

"Part of it resonated with me, I guess. Especially the main character. I don't think I can pick just one part because everything that happened just flowed into the next so easily," he looks up at Kenny then, an almost bashful smile on his face. "It felt genuine."

If his face wasn't already burning, it most definitely was now. Kenny turns his attention to a little piece of sticker that happens to be coming unglued on the top of his laptop. Focusing entirely on that, he scrapes away at the sticky surface as he listens.

"Not many people agree with you, they miss the point entirely I think." He sighs audibly before scratching harder at the sticker, "I got a lot of flack for the doorway to death and how I combined it with the idea that their reality eats at the mind, creating the illness."

The blond pauses, looking up at the other before smiling with a bittersweet expression. "They also ripped me apart for that whole 'kill the gay' trope. They missed the point that Oliver being gay wasn't the main focus, that his descent into darkness _was_ the focus. And..." Kenny shifts uncomfortably, "I was going to bring him back anyway."

"Wait, really?" Craig scoots his chair closer, any remaining tiredness in his eyes dissipating. "The whole plot line with Oliver and Drew was so painful, and when he died..."

"I know, it hurt to kill him but for his character arc it was necessary. But did people really think Riley and Lox would let him stay dead? Jesus, Lox is a reaper for god sake." Kenny huffs and shakes his head, realizing his voice had gradually gained in volume. "Ahh, sorry. I got a lot of shit for Oliver dying and it makes me so mad that they couldn't understand why he had to die."

"No, it made sense," Craig rests his elbows on the table, small gestures enhancing his usual deadpan, and Kenny realizes this is Craig excited. "He was pushed to a point where he literally could not continue, and knowing that they would bring him back in the next book makes so much fucking sense."

"It's called character development, I was trying to redeem him." Kenny supplies, the bitterness to his smile dissipating as he leans his cheek on his palm, excitement almost mirroring Craig. "But I don't think I'll publish the second one, I don't know if I can handle the backlash again."

The waiter's eyes widen a fraction, a strand of dark hair flopping out of its gelled hold and down in front of Craig's eyes. "You finished the second book?"

"I hate to break up your nerdgasm," Tweek says tiredly from the side of the table, apparently materializing in front of them and causing both men to start.

"Then don't," Craig offers a smile to the barista, turning back to Kenny. "A second book?"

"We're closed, Craig, go home," Tweek huffs, broom in hand.

"Why aren't you kicking him out? It's cold out there and we're going to the same place, dude," Craig slumps back in his chair to look up at the other.

"We have nnn-things to discuss, and you're a skeptic," Tweek hisses out with no real heat. "And a distraction."

Kenny watches the interaction with that creeping feeling inching back towards uncomfortable. It's a reminder that they're an item and he should keep his attachment level to strictly friendship. He wills himself to feel less disappointment at the end of his conversation with Craig, and tries to get excited to discuss the phenomenon that occurred earlier in the bathroom with the resident conspiracy theorist.

 _I was supposed to be gaining his trust, not getting lost in beautiful emerald eyes._ Kenny berates, sitting back up at full height seeming to snap back to reality.

"I'm not a distraction. I'll be quiet."

"Craig," Tweek raises a slender blond brow, hand on his hip, "I can hear the questions you're thinking of. We have shit to talk about, a-and we can't if you're salivating over nnnngh Kenny."

Both of their eyes narrow, a silent war of wills going on between them, and Kenny was half expecting sparks to shoot of our their eyes.

"Fine," Craig concedes before grabbing the notepad and pen out of Tweek's apron, scribbling something down, and ripping the paper off to hand to Kenny. "Call me."

He stands then, swinging his satchel over his shoulder and ruffling Tweek's hair on his way to the door. "See you at home."

Kenny sits there, eyes glued to the digits scribbled on the paper and feels more confused than he thinks he has ever felt in his entire life. He glances up, expecting Tweek to be angry that his boyfriend who apparently he lives with gave another man his phone number, but all he sees is Tweek grinning?

The questions are starting to out number answers and Kenny's head is spinning. This town keeps getting more and more strange.

"Bye, see you soon," the barista calls out the door after Craig, locking it firmly and taking up his broom again. "He's uh...usually not that talkative with new people."

Kenny blinks himself out of his haze and offers an awkward toothy smile, "He must really like my books then." The blond softly tucks the paper into his jacket pocket and tries to ignore the excitement he feels when he thinks about further conversations with Craig. "I'm honored."

Tweek snorts out a laugh at the comment, sweeping around a nearby table. "Book. H-he gives me shit for liking your others all the time," he crouches down to try to get a napkin unwedged from a table leg with his broom.

"Really? I mean, I don't blame him, they aren't my favorite works. But they put food on the table and I appreciate your support of them." Kenny salutes before he starts packing his stuff again.

"So... anything weird about that bathroom I should know?" Kenny ventures to start, vaguely, gauging Tweeks response.

The thin barista promptly hits his head on the underside of the table, letting out a yelp of pain and rubbing at his head through wild blond locks.

Kenny shifts from his spot, worry etched on his face as he looks under the table. "Are you okay, dude?"

"I-I'm, fuuuck, fine. I'm fine," Tweek hoists himself back to his feet with the help of his broom, eyeing the mentioned bathroom. "Why do you ask about it? About the bathroom?"

The blond debates telling the truth versus lying but finds the fastest way to get someone's trust is the truth. "I saw something weird."

Tweek visibly bristles at Kenny's words, turning to face the other. "Weird like how?"

Kenny pauses for dramatic tension, he needs to play this correctly if he was going to crack the code that was Tweek Tweak.

"You're gonna think I'm crazy," he stops, glancing down at the laptop in front of him. "But I swore I saw eyes?"

"Eyes?!" Tweek rushes into Kenny's space, nearly knocking his teeth out with the broom when he grabs for the front of the other's jacket. "You saw eyes?"

"Woah!" Kenny gasps out, feeling the fingers grip his jacket and lift him. His eyes widen and he feels himself wanting to pull back, give himself some personal space. But he ignores his instincts and just nods slowly.

"I- uh, it got cold? And the hot water turned on. Someone wrote 'get out' and I saw grey eyes." The blond locks eyes with the feisty barista before nervously laughing, "I think I must have hallucinated or something right? Couldn't have been a real ghost."

The deep aqua of Tweek's irises nearly disappear with how wide his pupils are. "Y...Yeah, you're right," he whispers, carefully peeling his hands away from Kenny's jacket and quickly ducking to snatch his broom from when it clattered to the ground. "It's probably a lack of sleep. It can nnnnngh really change how you see things."

He can sense the change in Tweek's demeanor almost instantly, the blond switching into that same tactic of avoidance that's been plaguing Kenny since the first interview. With this, he knows not to push the other boy.

 _Slow and steady wins the race._ Kenny thinks, "Ahh, I mean. I haven't been sleeping well? These stupid nightmares," The blond stops short of saying more, smiling instead. "Probably just moving jitters, huh?"

"Probably," the barista mutters, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers before starting to sweep again. "Sleep can do wonders. When I nnn-manage to get more than three hours, I can see things clearer."

"You have problems sleeping too?" Kenny wonders out loud, trying not to dive too deep and push Tweek away. "I take some sleeping meds sometimes, does the trick." He offers a smile and packs his laptop away, sensing that Tweek may be too much on edge to finish their conversation now.

Tweek sweeps at the same patch of floor, shaking his head, "I can't do sleeping pills. T-they're not...not trustworthy at all."

"Oh?" The taller man narrows his eyebrows at the comment, "Is there a reason you think that?"

"Nnnnngh-no. No, there's..." he stops his cleaning, turning to Kenny. "I don't like not being in control of myself, okay?"

A moment of true clarity hits Kenny and he finds himself nodding, an honest reaction among his carefully chosen words. "Yeah. Yeah I get that. I have a problem with that very same issue."

They hold eye contact, the intensity of the atmosphere rising to the point that Kenny feels it's a game of chicken, seeing who breaks the eye contact first. He feels somewhere inside that if he were the one to do it, he may not be able to gain the others trust. So he continues on, no matter how many bells and alarms inside tell him to look away, _**danger**_.

"Not being in control, I've had that problem too much in my life." He continues, his voice wavering slightly with the honesty of the statement.

Tweek swallows, his adam's apple bobbing above the collar of his button down. "Heh, you too, huh?" he muses, posture relaxing a bit with his words. "It's terrifying, isn't it? Seeing everything, feeling everything and being unable to move. To speak or wake up."

There's something humming under his skin, Kenny doesn't get the chance to answer, because the room feels different. It's as if the atmosphere itself of the small coffee shop has shifted.

It takes a beat before Kenny realizes he can see his breath. "Tweek?" He questions, the air in the room feeling more and more dense as time ticks off second by second. "Do you feel that?"

The barista tenses again, gripping hard at the handle of his broom. "Shhh. Quiet and still," Tweek breathes, giving Kenny a quick nod to make sure he understands before the lights go out.

Kenny stops moving all together, heeding the shorter man's command. The entire shop is covered in darkness, only the eerie light of the bakery counter continues to glow, the case flickering in and out. The temperature feels as if someone opened the door and allowed the outside elements to come in.

He doesn't dare speak, though the tiniest of gasps leaves his parted lips as the door to the bathroom slowly creeks open.

Kenny doesn't see anything, but the presence of something, that same feeling that overpowered him in the bathroom is back and seeping through his body like the cold rushing over his skin. Then he notices something, a shimmer in the light of the flickering bake case. It's almost a figure, translucent and wispy as smoke, pulsing in and out of existence with the little light in the case as it hovers over a lone mug set on the counter.

It's then that he dares to make a sound, standing from his seat and moving slowly toward Tweek. "Tweek, tell me you see that too?" He whispers.

Pressing his hand to Kenny's mouth, Tweek remains otherwise completely still, eyes trained on the case across the shop. "Quiet," if they hadn't been so close, Kenny would have never heard the single word leave the other's lips.

The blond doesn't fight against him, doesn't dare to try to make any more sounds. Instead he keeps his eyes trained on the glass, there's the faintest image painted across the flickering light.

The mug on the counter rattles, vibrating over the surface and providing the only sound in the cafe other than their faint breathing.

Kenny suppresses the urge to gasp at the sound; as the mug tips off of the counter, the echo of the shattering mug an invasion to their ears, louder than it should be in the silence of the shop.

The wave of cold that rushes over Kenny, chilling him to the bone, is followed immediately by the lights flicking back on, the café returning to a cozy shop as though nothing happened.

Except for the shards of ceramic littering the floor.

The two don't dare to move, frozen to their shared space. Kenny doesn't want to speak, nor can he, with the vice grip the barista has over his mouth. His eyes dart to the shorter blond, hoping he can get his question across silently.

"Shit," Tweek slumps against Kenny, the shaking in his hands growing with the surge of adrenaline.

Kenny raises his hands and steadies the smaller man, frowning toward the broken mug scattered across the ground.

With the hand still clamped over his mouth, he muffles his question. "Mffph?"

"Jesus, fuck, sorry," the barista jumps back, scrubbing his hands over his own face and tangling his fingers in his hair.

The blond takes in a deep breath when Tweek lets go, moving his mouth around before restating his question. "It's fine, are you okay?" Kenny is trying his best to keep himself calm and level, but this is the second time in the same night he's been faced with the unknown. Part of him is still terrified where the other can't help but be fascinated by the encounters.

"M'fine," he picks up his broom again, "Gaah, I hate sweeping up mugs. Dad's gonna pitch a fit."

"I can do that for you?" Kenny offers as he crosses the space between them, hand reaching to gently take the broom away from the shaking man. "You should sit down, you look pale."

"It's okay," Tweek replies, not making a move to take the broom back from Kenny. "Can't believe I forgot the coffee..."

Kenny makes his way over to the broken shards, sweeping the area carefully so not to miss any parts. "Is this normal?" He questions, not wanting to push, but interested in the fact that Tweek seems to know what to do during the situation.

"He hasn't broken a cup in a while, no," the words leave Tweek's mouth without his permission judging by the look of shock that crosses his face. "I mean no. Yes and no. Nnnnngh this is so complicated!" he groans into his hands.

The blond continues to sweep in silence, choosing not to acknowledge Tweek's slip up even though he does file that information away for later. After he's finished gathering all of the pieces of the mug in one spot, he turns to the other and cocks a brow.

"It seems this entire town is," He pauses before glancing toward the window, viewing the outside briefly. "complicated."

"And then some," Tweek grabs a nearby chair, flipping it upside down and setting it on the table. Kenny can feel the other's eyes on him as he puts up the chairs in the café, and notices the way Tweek never turns his back to the bathroom door. "I don't get you."

"How do you mean?" Kenny responds, grabbing the dustpan and sweeping the broken shards into it.

Tweek puts up the last two chairs, running a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Y-you show up here out of nowhere and can..." he turns then, eye twitching, "you can see this shit. You care about this fucking town and all of the insane stuff going on here when no one else does and I want to know why."

Kenny puzzles this information through his mind, working out that apparently, it was rare for someone to see the things the two of them had seen? Not only that, but it would explain all the unsolved mysteries surrounding the area if people simply didn't talk about the on-goings.

He frowns, wrinkling his nose before shrugging, "I pay attention."

The barista stills at that, watching Kenny with apprehension and a look that signaled that his response in no way answered his question. "Maybe it's best if you don't."

"You know, that wouldn't be the first time someone's said that to me." Kenny chuckles lightly, the night's events still causing his hands to shake against the broom handle. He tries his best to school his face as he shrugs, "But it's hard to turn off your mind."

Tweek still has that look, aqua eyes wide and searching. They narrow with a twitch, the smaller blond crossing to Kenny in several short steps and taking the broom from him. "I think you should go."

Kenny is taken a back, unsure what it is he said wrong to trigger this reaction. But he knows better than to push the situation, the room feels charged enough. Flashing a short smile, he walks over to his bag and packs the last of his belongings. He's silent as he does this but turns before he leaves.

"You know, I spent a long time closed off. I had a hard time trusting people for most of my life, it's why I decided to publish my books in the first place." His blue eyes lift to glance at the bathroom before turning to meet Tweek's gaze. "Words, they bring people together. They have the power to start conversations, to end wars, to develop friendships. So, I shared my words with the world." Kenny stops, tugging on the strap of his bag before opening the door, the bell chiming softly. "You shouldn't be so afraid to share your words, Tweek."

"I'm afraid of a lot of things, Kenny," Tweek's voice is even, carrying across the shop and sending a chill through Kenny that rivals the dropping temperature outside. "But my words have never been one of them."

"If you say so." There's doubt in his voice as he smiles, turning to leave and waving his hand as he goes. "I'll see you later."


End file.
